Long Whores Poems
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A ship's cook
The sea is dark, clunky, and calm today
slowly undulate
turns white where the ship's bow has plowed a furrow
that stretches for miles.
Gulls still follow us, shrieking and waiting for the cook to
throw overboard waste food, tomorrow gone back to the coast waiting, for another ship
I fiddle with the radio in the galley, find a good station
it saddens me also as it was it was my brother's favorite song
We left Antwerp 24 hundred hours ago,
it had been
hectic, long night, blaring music, whores and beer
In the drunken haze, a nucleus of sobriety reminded
a longing for something better, knowing this was
a temporary and shallow
as for now, I have a long day ahead of me, food to cook
bread to make and the cleaning of pots and pans
that is why cooks are temperamental
I feel safe in my little domain, a place the captain fear
to enters. Yes, I'm sailing across the sea, and it is good
to be alive on a day like this
What good is love, when guys and girls are whores?
What use are we, when all is the libido?
Good girls on their backs, bad girls on all fours,
secretly swoon for guys like the Mandingo!
Like “Deep Throat,” all women like giving oral;
and men just ask them if they spit or swallow?
Some men prefer to give a woman a**l;
and whether he's the Greek god of Apollo,
she'll act as though she loves it (bondage; gangbangs;
facials; threesomes; hotwifing with hung, black bulls;
and cuckolding—if guys could mount like Mustangs!).
Despite all of their lusting for pussyfuls,
men just want a loving lady of the Nile,
a beauty, an angel that is his maiden;
but a sweet talker, a prince charming with style,
women die for (a philandering Satan!).
O, the hidden deeds that we do, but never discuss:
for The Age of P**n, we bend the knee as slaves!
Honor in public, without moral compass,
are secrets taken (by us) to the graves.
Man is Fearful and unapologetic
Chivalry is dead
Fair ladies and noble chivalry
Is a thing of the past?
Men board buses and trains
And small passageway
and boorishly, say to the ladies
especially on the freeway
To move out of their way
and stop backing up the highway
However, the fair ladies are not timid
those wall flowers are replace by huge egos
Today fair ladies retaliate and never exhibit ladylike qualities
Therefore, men referred to them as whores.
*****es and witches
Women! Let us never bow and apologize
Chivalry is dead,
Because man is a broken giant and in all his mishaps
Weak by nature in his arrogates ways.
would it never end, it all depends
Whom do they think they are ?
The dust from the falling stars
Form:
The maw of war opens signs
the sepulcher of promise
denotes a rose bleeding all
those who suppose in time
battle axes and saviors
bite the head of the snake
drooling gibberish of bravery
drained batteries on mobiles
an old man pants and drools
a childhood lost at sea (infernos rage in crime)
inspired by those who wish to wash you
feel the scrape of skin (calls and a bartering nun soothes)
holy mary, mother may eye
-s close the world shuts to black
clouds know rain and snow
weakness (blood-drained brain)
the secret seethes in an angels’ scream
(a breath in a dream) butterflies moths
mothers and whores invoke the power
(squeezed-heart-seconds) cringed dolls
curled in tattered repose (symphonies, politicians,
the ratio is severed the knowledge puked in dejavu’s)…
tight marionettes dance through my neck
a tornado pulls calm through my chest,
heavy, heaving, heaven, hell,
bells toll churches kick graves in
--boots thunder through hidden halls—
of wood vampires milking judgment cracked in stone…
Thousands of Queens in numerous countries
Inward were bountiful dreams of serving their subjects
In strong and numerous cities of many nations are placed loose women
Laid and layed down women scorned loosed prostitutes whores
In battling men singles married and more
Giving of themselves hardly human and yet acting like raised animals
Virgins untouched their sins like their loosed sister's forgiven
Oh my love be still my heart
In conjecture allow me to start
For you see in reality
You Belong To Me
And royalty has no control of thee
O' virgin fair untouched and yet rare
Your doctor's daughter a flower ever fair
You Belong To Me
And royalty has no control of thee
Hundreds of people in cities denying the presence of royalty essence
Halty and high-minded spiritually blinded
Enriching the rich encasing the poor
Loose slot in your opinion of it those governmental systems
Help the rich entertain the Have Nots
I shall not be the prostitute of your problem
I shall not initiate the Pains of this world
I shall not be left embellished it's not a question
Trust not in man no government they're not on blessing
For the virgin of the matter is seek clean bee clean
Is in a dream just what does this mean
Prostituted government entwined and embellishment
Who do the rich really represent
Or I am virginity poor untouched and pure cleanse unites us oh Lord
2/9/19
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
He tipped his hat and he said to her:
“Ma’am, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
Can you kindly tell me why those whores are out,
has no one taught those girls a lick of sense?”
She chuckled softly, and then said to him:
“I see you haven’t been to L.A. for a while.
They’re not prostitutes, just dumb teenager girls,
aping the latest in Hollywood ‘style.’
“I don’t know what they see in that stuff,
you’d never catch me wearing that dreck.
Like great-gramma Norma once said to my mom,
‘A woman needs to have her self-respect.'
“But you yourself are dressed unusually,
are you in the middle of some sort of L.A.R.P.?
If your trying to look like an old-time cowboy,
I must say you’ve really nailed the part!”
Linton smiled at the friendly woman and said:
“I’m not exactly sure what you mean—”
Then came a flash of blue and of red,
and an auto made a metallic scream.
Two men emerged from a dark blue car,
dressed up somewhat like the city police.
one shouted,”You on the horse with the two guns,
you throw up your hands and you freeze!”
Linton saw them pointing what looked like pistols,
though they strangely had no cylinders,
panic set it, and he kicked hard on his horse,
the mare racing at the touch of the spurs.
The men behind then did not start to shoot,
but they brought their automobile to life,
he heard it’s engine, but the road ended soon,
his horse cleared it’s metal rail in flight.
The police clambered out, and followed on foot,
but they’d no chance to catch up with him now,
he raced for the light, squinting as he neared,
passing through as fast as his horse would allow.
He opened his eyes, and saw nothing but scrub,
his heart still a-pounding frantically,
glancing over his shoulder all Linton saw…
...was a dry ravine running down to the sea.
CONCLUDES IN PART III.
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
He trotted up to Hamlin’s Bar,
stopping in for a quick drink.
He sat a tall, blue roan Mustang,
with a hide like darkest ink.
He paced into the noisy saloon,
amidst gamblers, drunks, and whores,
walked up to the simple bar,
and ordered whiskey, nothing more.
The burning shot was warming
after a cold night on the tail.
Barkeep tried to sell him another,
but he tried to no avail.
Rider found himself musing about
stopping in a town like this,
leaving behind the endless hunt,
getting out of the prairie winds.
He thought about a warm bed,
about cafes with bacon and coffee,
but as he did the old rage surged
and the thoughts all came to nothing.
In his mind came strangled cries,
the choking smoke and flames,
the dark cackle of evil men,
echoed through his brain…
With that he got on up to leave,
but a figure blocked his way.
A youngish man, vaguely familiar,
though why, he could not say.
The man growled and he said:
“I’ve seen you once before.
I watched you kill my brother Nick,
back east in Pellan’s Forge.”
The rider cocked his head and said:
“You must be young Jack Burnside.
I suppose you want revenge,
so let’s go take this outside.”
Jack nodded and they walked,
the young man’s eyes enraged.
To the street, the men went,
the town watching as they paced.
They stood off, then Jack’s hand
flew down for his gun,
but the Rider was a bolt of light,
and the draw quickly won...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
WITHOUT US, NO MORE US!
If only I could awoken to her wonderful words everyday
Bushes will turn into pretty beautiful dancing flowers
Could I have loved someone else greater than you?
No; I don’t think it’s even ever never going to be possible.
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder; You are the prettiest girl my eyes behold
What else can I hold more precious than you in this life?
Yes! My life; because you are my life and you my only precious possession
How can I ever take advantage of you? Never! You are always mine to have
Only us can stop us; I don’t see that happening because this love can’t stop now
Anybody hoping to break us up is more delusional than Pharaoh
It’s like crossing the red sea without Moses and his divine staff
The love of Romeo and Juliet is our stepping stone; where theirs stop ours begin
Love, understanding, compatibility, respect, happiness; the features of our love
I love you so much that I do stay faithful in a room full of whores
You are one of my greatest inspirations; you are the reason I write love poems
Whenever I begin to miss you; I envelope myself in an abyss of poetic writings
I have a beast hidden deep inside me; I will hurt all who ever hurt you
I will not just catch a grenade for you; I will make grenades for you
The love I have for you is going deep towards obsession; I lost without you
You are my endless love; I will always love you.
Without us, No more us...
Te Amo Currie...
Lordvip
July,2013.